Ode 8

Singe wee the Rose     Then which no flower there growes         Is sweeter:     And aptly her compare     With what in that is rare         A parallel none meeter.     Or made poses,     Of this that incloses         Suche blisses,     That naturally flusheth     As she blusheth         When she is robd of kisses.     Or if strew'd     When with the morning dew'd         Or stilling,     Or howe to sense expos'd     All which in her inclos'd,         Ech place with sweetnes filling.     That most renown'd     By Nature richly crownd         With yellow,     Of that delitious layre     And as pure, her hayre         Vnto the same the fellowe,     Fearing of harme     Nature that flower doth arme         From danger,     The touch giues her offence     But with reuerence         Vnto her selfe a stranger.     That redde, or white,     Or mixt, the sence delyte         Behoulding,     In her complexion     All which perfection         Such harmony infouldinge.     That deuyded     Ere it was descided         Which most pure,     Began the greeuous war     Of York and Lancaster,         That did many yeeres indure.     Conflicts as greate     As were in all that heate         I sustaine:     By her, as many harts     As men on either parts         That with her eies hath slaine.     The Primrose flower     The first of Flora's bower         Is placed,     Soo is shee first as best     Though excellent the rest,         All gracing, by none graced.